


Many Worlds

by 1sendai



Series: Many Returns [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Admit it. Most of you like Excitement, Alternate Universe - Crack, Besides E sounds more Exciting than M, Bottom John, Crack Relationships, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Crack, I have issues. Many issues., I may have missed the point of tags, I repeat that i have many issues, I think it's E-ish, I'm not sure if the smut is M or E, I'm not sure what I'm doing here but it is fun, John and Sherlock love each other and get it on later in the story, John is a natural bottom, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock slash, Just note that there are only three parts to this series. at least so far, M/M, Parentlock, Tags Are Hard, This is AU and everyone is OOC, this is part 3 of Many Returns and it says part 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1sendai/pseuds/1sendai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock uses the Internet to guide him in his attempts to provide hands-on child care and build a meaningful relationship with his blogger. John hits his head against a hostile wall and is confused or drugged or possibly a refugee from an alternate universe. John is also very horny. Sherlock is willing to lend a helping hand. <br/>Mycroft is present to provide brotherly advice and to act as a foil for Sherlock but does not partake of any smut. <br/>Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson appear briefly at the end, well after the smut, and one of the married ones almost has a cameo appearance, but not really.<br/> John's baby has much to say, but since she is an infant, no one understands her. She is a minor and has nothing to do with any smut, because that would be squicky, and I don't roll that way.<br/> Most of the supporting cast wasn't listed in the character list; bad 1sendai.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely based on the non-events that occur in the first offerings of Many Returns, however, you do not have to read them first to understand the crack in this story. This is meant to be funny. It is crack with a healthy dose of smut. The characters are OOC.  
> DISCLAIMER. This is where I state that I do not own the rights to Sherlock (BBC or ADC). I also do not own the rights to nor do I own a financial interest in Pampers or Tesco's. Stephen Hawking has nothing to do with me and surely would not want anything to do with me or this fic. Sadly for Stephen Hawking, I do reference his work as a physicist in this story.  
> MANY WORLDS is the interpretaion of quantum mechanics that asserts the objective reality of the universal wavefunction and denies the actuality of wavefunction collapse. (Wikipedia) So what does this actually mean? I'm sure I don't know. I wouldn't know wavefront from a cold front. BUT, it is the basis by which many physicists (including Sheldon Cooper) assert that there are multiple, perhaps infinite realities. In some of these realities, Fan Girls can each date a member of One DIrection (Stephen Hawking said so on 4/27/15). I have shamelessly used this theory to posit that there are an infinite number of Johns and Sherlocks, which only has a little bearing on my story, although not much. Still, it is comforting to imagine millions of universes where Johnlock is real. Why, it's even possible that, in some universe, an AU John Watson is dating a member of One Direction, which will make some AU Sherlock jealous. Who wants Jealous!Sherlock? Wait...what do you mean Sheldon Cooper isn't a real physicist?  
> (See the end of the work for more notes.)

** Many Worlds (now re-edited with the help of Old Ping Hai) **

The World’s Only Consulting Detective nearly retreated in the face of her demonic fury, which she conveyed through inhuman shrieks of outrage.

She was a Watson, albeit a tiny, two-month-old version, and so her violent temper was to be expected.

Sherlock, who never dithered, dithered today. The man who was always sure of himself, was uncertain.

He had thought that he could handle this. 

He’d read about it on line. It sounded simple. Idiots all around the world did it, all of the time.

But Sherlock Holmes had no idea where to start.

It didn’t help that Mycroft stood by, judging him.

Elizabeth Watson roared her displeasure at his dithering.

Looking at her and at the mess leaking from her diaper, Sherlock could hardly blame the child for protesting. If he had that noxious substance smeared all over his nether regions, he’d be roaring too.

His hand hovered over the infant-just in case. The online parenting guides had warned that even very young infants must be monitored closely, lest they fall prey to gravity. 

 Privately, Sherlock thought this warning was ridiculous; Elizabeth had not yet even rolled over, so how could she fall to the floor? But the Internet guides were most insistent on this matter. 'Never leave baby unattended, lest she fall.' Blah. Blah. Blah.

John himself had delivered this warning too, repeatedly, which was dull. Sherlock hated repetition.

Nevertheless, he had promised to follow John’s strictures on matters pertaining to Elizabeth. Of course that was subject to modification, if he obtained incontrovertible proof that he was right and John was wrong. 

But in this matter, his doctor was supported by every single parenting blog and website on the Internet; so it was better to err on the side of caution. 

The detective's fingers drummed restlessly on the infant’s plump tummy, which briefly distracted her. 

Because he was still deep in thought, the normally observant detective barely noticed the lull in her storm of tears. 

Of course, he could summon John to take care of this little domestic crisis. John was the man responsible for the infant's existence. John made Elizabeth, not on purpose, but there you are. Or rather, here she is, a happy accident...and currently a happy accident in need of a diaper change.

His fingers tapped in time to the music from Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik, which was overplayed, but considered suitable for growing brains by four different websites. 

Later, he intended to play this music on his violin for Elizabeth, to dispel the effects of those ridiculous so-called nursery rhymes, which John insisted on singing. Well, not so much singing as chanting, because John believed that he couldn't sing...

The dancing fingers only held the infant's attention for a short time, because she was dirty and uncomfortable, so she snuffled. 

Her daddy, who was meant to be holding her at all times and seeing to her every need, was not here, which almost broke her heart. She let out a sob.

Furthermore, her other daddy, her new daddy, the one who danced with her and who usually held her just right, was not attending to her every need. 

This was wrong! She screamed. She screamed and screamed and intended to keep screaming until the world was right again.

'Well, Elizabeth might have been a happy accident, thought Sherlock, but she isn't happy right now. She really quite upset. She looks and sounds just like her father when he gets into a right strop…except that John doesn’t actually cry most of the time. And obviously, John would never cry in front of Mycroft.'

‘However, the actual point being,' thought Sherlock, ‘John should be here right now. John is a doctor, and he is experienced in dealing with toxic waste. And honestly, John enjoys cleaning. He's always trying to clean the kitchen. And Elizabeth requires cleaning, and she's already in the kitchen. John could clean up the baby and the mess easily, and he'd be ecstatic while doing it. What could be more perfect?’ 

Really, the only surprising thing was that John hadn’t materialized to take charge of the situation before now.

Sherlock looked around, expecting to see John.

Instead, he saw Mycroft. He'd almost been able to forget that Mycroft was here for no good reason.

As usual, Mycroft looked at his brother with disapproval. The force of this disapproval was somewhat lessened, as he had been forced to take shelter from the toxic waste behind Mrs. Hudson's apron and some pink ski goggles (the spare safety goggles having been lost by John when he carelessly fell into the Thames. Note to self: acquire additional safety goggles. For John. Not for Mycroft). (Additional note to self, acquire miniature set of safety goggles for Elizabeth.) (Also, do not tell John about the miniature goggles, which will probably not be technically approved for use by infants.)

“I thought you said you knew what you were doing,” said Mycroft.

Not that Sherlock could actually hear his brother over Elizabeth’s protests, but of course he could read lips fairly well, and he always knew what Mycroft was thinking anyway.

The detective's lips turned down, because of course he knew what he was doing. He always knew what he was doing. Except when he didn't. 

And of course Mycroft always knew what Sherlock was thinking too, which was annoying and NOT his problem right now. 

His fingers drummed gently on his current problem's tiny chest. She liked this new rhythm and withheld her protests momentarily.   The genius of Baker Street took finally took note of this brilliant new method of infant pacification. He couldn't wait to show his new technique to John, who insisted that stupid plastic dummies were necessary to pacify crying babies.  

Well, John wasn’t here, and both Elizabeth and Mycroft expected him to remedy the situation... 

With his free hand, the consulting detective delicately selected a single unscented, Pampers Brand, premium baby wipe, which was labeled for sensitive skin and contained milk essentials. A superior wipe in every way. Rubbing the wipe between his fingers, he noted the fine texture of the wipe, but he did wonder why a wipe intended for external use had been imbued with milk essentials. Perhaps an experiment was in order...

"Are the disposable infant hygiene flannels not to your liking," asked Sherlock's pretentious sibling with a show of concern. "Anthea assured me that these were the most expensive selection available in the establishment." 

"They seem adequate,” said Sherlock stiffly.

"Well, surely they will prove to be superior to those." Mycroft cast a critical eye towards the discarded Tesco's Everyday Value baby wipes, yet another one of John's economical purchases.

"Agreed. During rigorous experimentation, that bargain brand failed to meet my expectations," he raised his voice to be heard over the infant's disgruntled whimper. 

"You set them on fire?" asked Mycroft, who feigned disinterest.

"Mm, yes. They were in fact flammable...when subjected to sufficient heat. And they failed dismally in tests with picric acid. No doubt these disposable flannels will prove to be at least marginally better than John's preferred product."

"Yes," murmured Mycroft, "yes he does tend toward...the plebeian." 

Sherlock's lips now turned down at Mycroft's disapproval of his doctor, who was admittedly a bit too thrifty, yet who was still the finest man of Sherlock's acquaintance, not to mention his beloved boyfriend.

Before Sherlock could insult his brother in retaliation for his criticism of John, Mycroft said, "Oh, do get on with this Sherlock. The matter which I brought to you is vital to the security of Britain, and this senseless delay..."

"Would you like to attend to the remediation of the waste matter, while I take a look at the files?" said the consulting detective, making as if he were about to leave the kitchen.

"Don't be absurd!" sputtered the British government. "Just remove the soiled article and use the disposable flannels to good effect."

"I believe that it would be more efficacious to reduce the spoilage first, and only then remove the article," countered Sherlock.

"Then do so...or shall I summon the good Doctor?"

"That could be foolhardy," said Sherlock enigmatically. 

Mycroft made a noise of disgust, but Sherlock was unsure whether this was due to his enigmatic and empty threat or due to the noisome mess, which enveloped his normally adorable goddaughter.

Sherlock took a moment to regret the loss of his gas mask, which had been destroyed during that unfortunate incident with the acid and the battery from John's phone. 

'Still,' thought Sherlock, 'while a gas mask would come in handy, it's not as though I'm not used to dealing with bad odors. It didn't bother me last month when they found that dismembered body in back of the abandoned lorry; I continued my observations while everyone else moaned and groaned (or in the case of PC Manlius, moaned, groaned and expelled the contents of his stomach, which was disgusting and also unprofessional). Sherlock lips dipped into a deep frown. He did not like PC Manlius, who had displayed inappropriate interest in his blogger's backside.

 Sherlock would handle that PC Manlius in the very near future. In the meantime, he would simply ignore the disagreeable odor. Aside from the gas mask, he was clearly prepared to deal with the toxic waste. He reassured himself by sliding his gloved hand down the front of his leather chemical spill-proof apron.

There was one tiny problem. The problem was that Elizabeth herself was too tiny. 

Of course she was a Watson, and therefore was probably a tough little creature for her size. Nevertheless, even her father, John, who was the epitome of stubborn fortitude, had proved to be surprisingly breakable when Sherlock had pretended to die and then returned in such an amusing manner.

It really should have been quite funny, what with the fake mustache...

John had been meant to laugh and giggle and tell Sherlock how amazing he was...

John had not laughed. He had not exclaimed over Sherlock's brilliance. John had just stared at Sherlock with that horrible look of hurt on his face

The detective never wanted to see that hurt look on John’s face ever again. 

And Elizabeth, who had stopped crying, now wore that same look on her face. That sad, angry, hurt, betrayed, reproachful look…it was dreadful. The Watsons had an uncanny way of manipulating Sherlock's sentiment...

"Stop sentimentalizing everything, and just use the disposable flannel to…" For once, Mycroft seemed to be at a loss for words. Judging from his color, he might have been nauseated by the smell. "to...to ...just clean it. Clean it all up," hissed the tight-lipped man. 

'Ah, nausea it is,' thought the younger Holmes with a small smirk.

Sherlock took hold of a premium disposable flannel and swiped at the excrement, which had seeped out from under the edge of the inadequate nappy. 

It was a largely symbolic gesture. 

The consulting detective grimaced-why was the wretched waste seeping out in the first place. Weren’t disposable diapers supposed to contain all of the waste?

 'This is what comes of purchasing economy products,' decided Sherlock. 'From now on, I will insist that John only buy the best, most advanced products available.'

Elizabeth had stopped crying. She was confused. She was still wet and dirty and smelly. The large people who surrounded her had refused to do her bidding, and she wanted to make them go away. She wanted to roll over, because out-of-sight meant out-of-existence.

Sherlock had dropped the useless yet still soiled wipe onto the floor and grabbed another, but then he noticed that Elizabeth, wearing a miniature version of John's determined face, had begun to rock back and forth. 

Sherlock held his breath, waiting to see if his goddaughter would roll over. The developmental charts on the Internet said that she should be able to roll over at about two months. Elizabeth was two months old and had not yet rolled over, which had concerned her godfather, but now she seemed ready to demonstrate her superior gross motor skills.

"Come on...roll. Roll. Roll. Roll over," muttered Sherlock, under his breath. He very much wanted to be the first person to observe Elizabeth as she achieved this developmental milestone.

She seemed as if she was really trying. Would it be cheating if he gave her a little nudge? Probably.

Nonetheless, he would have given her that nudge; only he remembered that his insufferable sibling would be a witness. Besides, he didn't want Mycroft to see Elizabeth conquer any milestones. Mycroft wasn't worthy to witness such advancements.

Sherlock was now prepared to stop Elizabeth, when he noticed that her little forehead crinkled in concentration as she rocked from side to side, which made her look just like John. 

Adorable.

He smiled dotingly. 

Mycroft sighed in disgust.

Elizabeth stopped trying to roll over. She looked her godfather right in the eye and gave a blood-curdling shriek of grief and fury. For that one moment, she reminded Sherlock of her mother. 

Sherlock frowned at the thought of Mary.

The wail lasted an impressive ten seconds and reached new levels of volume. She had extraordinary lung capacity, just like John.

A grin split Sherlock's face at the thought of Elizabeth and John's superior lung capacity.

 Mycroft despaired, as did the soiled infant. 

One of the married ones, from next store, pounded on the wall. Not that Sherlock cared about disturbing his neighbors.

 Although it did confirm that Elizabeth was extraordinarily loud, which once more begged the question, why hadn’t John heard his daughter's shrieks and come to her rescue, like a good soldier should? 

If the married one next door could hear the infant's banshee-like cries even while he futilely banged on the wall, then why hadn't John heard them? 

Perhaps some dreadful misfortune had befallen John Watson.

Perhaps, John had been kidnapped. Sherlock's head slowly turned as he weighed the likelihood of this hypothesis. 

Then he shook his head, discarding the idea. He would have noticed if kidnappers had been prowling through the flat.

Perhaps, John had been drugged.

This hypothesis carried much more weight. Everyone tried to drug John at some point. Sherlock himself had been forced to try to drug John, in the name of science.

“I’m worried about John!” boomed Sherlock’s deep voice. Mycroft shook his head, unable to hear his sibling over the renewed protests of the missing man's daughter.

Unlike Sherlock, the ersatz minor bureaucrat was not adept at lip reading. Sherlock smirked at his brother's shortcoming. His smile faded as he recalled his mounting concern over his new lover's well being.

“I said; I’m WORRIED ABOUT JOHN! I think HE’S BEEN DRUGGED!” repeated the consulting detective, yelling louder. “Mary may have secretly returned and used some of that choral hy…”

“Nonsense!” said Mycroft loudly, but without shouting, because shouting was undignified. “A.G.R.A. was confirmed in Budapest early this morning by two independent observers, and you are not leaving this room until you deal with that.”

Sherlock had only moved away from the table by fraction of an inch, and his eyes narrowed in irritation at being caught out by his older brother.

However, upon further thought, perhaps it was for the best if he didn't run off in search of John.

His retreat could (mistakenly) be viewed as a weakness.  It was unwise to show weakness in front of one's enemy, especially one's archenemy. And Mycroft would be sure to use any (mistakenly) perceived weakness against him.

But then again...was it not natural for a flatmate-turned-lover to check on his possibly drugged flatmate-turned-boyfriend?

 Obviously, it would only be prudent to access John and gather a few samples of John's blood to determine which drug had been used.  Eleven vials should prove sufficient for the drug assay plus leaving some extra samples for future experimentation.

And if John was not in fact sedated and happened to awaken while Sherlock withdrew a few samples of blood, which would not be wasted in any case, well...

Well, then John would get out of bed and take charge of the hazardous spill on the kitchen table, which would be better for everyone.

 Plus, it would make John happy, because he'd be able to clean his daughter, the newly contaminated kitchen table and the floor. John enjoyed cleaning.

Win-win-win.

Because he was thinking about John so much, his fingers had switched to the piece he was composing for John. It was entitled, For John, Number 12. Coincidentally, Elizabeth's voice had dropped to a dull roar. 

But Sherlock didn't believe in coincidence. So, clearly Elizabeth enjoyed...

"Oh do get on with it," Mycroft interrupted the detective's musings. "And, yes. She does respond to the rhythm of your drumming fingers, but she clearly preferred the Mozart. Given her plebeian origins, she'd probably appreciate Tchaikovsky's Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy even more," added the British Government with a derisive sneer. 

The younger Holmes frowned deeply. How dare his brother sneer at any Watson, and it was galling that Mycroft had noticed Elizabeth's response to his tapping fingers. 

 Before Sherlock relinquished temporary custody of Elizabeth to go in search of his phlebotomy equipment and his hypothetically poisoned boyfriend, the detective had second...or perhaps third thoughts. 

What if Sherlock woke a partially sedated Doctor Watson, and what if that doctor became cranky? This was all too possible. John was often cranky when he first awoke, and many people were cranky when coming down off a drug induced buzz. If the two states were combined in the person of John Watson...Well, there would probably more screaming for one thing. Even worse, John might be too cranky to properly enjoy the cleaning experience, which Sherlock wanted to share with him. Worst of all, John might become so cranky that he would refuse to engage in further sexual intercourse, which would be most unsatisfactory. It had been nearly eight hours since their last tryst and Sherlock was ready for another go.

No, it would probably be best if John were left alone to sleep off his drug-induced semi-coma. The blood samples would just have to wait until later. 

Leaving Sherlock to deal with the bio-waste, meaning the soiled nappy.

Of course, the bio-waste could also refer to his older brother too.

Sherlock finally responded to his brother, as if there had not been a several-minute lapse in their conversation.

“Elizabeth's musical preferences are hardly germane to the situation. Besides, she is only two months old and her preferences are still developing. Also, I wasn’t planning on leaving,” lied Sherlock. “I merely wished to indicate that I was concerned that John might have been drugged.” 

Mycroft nodded, because the same thought had occurred to him several seconds before it occurred to Sherlock.  Once again proving that Mycroft was smarter than his younger brother.

 Sherlock observed that his brother was worried about John too, which was concerning on two levels.

Why would Mycroft be concerned for John, unless he was interested in the ex-army doctor for his own nefarious purposes?

In addition, if the fat know-it-all was concerned, then it was extremely likely that John had in fact been drugged by someone. But by whom? 

Perhaps Moriarty had come back from the dead for a third round?

“No, Sherlock!” shouted Mycroft over the din, which was now louder than an Airbus engine. "It was not Moriarty. But whoever drugged the good doctor, perhaps it is for the best. He will not be pleased to see the state of this…” He waved his hand with imperial disdain at the spectacle, which lay in front of them. 

Like almost everything Mycroft did, his disdain made Sherlock angry. How dare Mycroft look with disdain on Elizabeth Shirley Watson? She was perfect, because she was Sherlock’s godchild and the fruit of John’s loins. And John had perfectly delectable loins.

Just then, Mycroft began to sidle away, foolishly thinking that the World’s Only Consulting Detective wouldn’t detect his cowardly retreat.

"And where do you think you're going?" demanded Sherlock, in a voice like thunder. 

Sadly, the detectives booming voice must have frightened young Elizabeth Shirley, and she let loose a shriek, which probably shattered glass somewhere on Baker street. 

The married one banged on the wall again. 

‘Perhaps that ridiculous mirror over the married ones' bed broke,’ thought Sherlock enviously. Now that John was sharing his bed, Sherlock wanted a mirror over his bed too.

The detective looked at the premium disposable wipe in his hand. It took a moment for him to recall why he was wearing protective gear and holding a disposable flannel. The pre-moistened towelette seemed rather small, and he could not see how it would be sufficient to the task. Indeed, he himself might not be sufficient to the task. 

He needed assistance. 

Lestrade was not a good choice. He'd only laugh and take pictures to share with the other Yarders.

Molly had as much experience with children as did Sherlock, which meant no experience. 

Mrs. Hudson could have been very helpful, but she had chosen a most inopportune time to go shopping. 

Why did the woman take so long to buy food? Food was boring and inconvenient.

 “Can you not put one of those plugs in her mouth?” demanded the British government, “When in public, I have seen parents insert plastic plugs to keep their offspring quiet.”

"When are you ever in public?" countered Sherlock; his face was impassive and his eyes were cold.

However, inside his mind palace he tore at his hair and utilized some of John’s better curses. The tapping fingers really didn't pacify the baby as well as the stupid plastic dummies. Regrettably, Sherlock could not give the crying child a plastic dummy, because Sherlock had scornfully (and behind John’s back) binned the lot of them as useless crutches, which would inculcate the child with an oral fixation and deprive Elizabeth of several precious IQ points. (Why do you think they call them DUMMIES?) 

His high-minded parenting theories had seemed logical at the time and were supported by no less than three parenting web sites, but in the face of a real-life child care crisis, the detective was now willing to entertain the notion that he may have miscalculated.

'Well, it's too late nowwww,' wailed Mind Palace Sherlock. It was no use wishing for a dummy, they were long gone. The only people who would conceivably aid Sherlock were either incompetent, selfishly spending time in shops or lying in a drug-induced daze.

Clearly, the only solution left was to actually change the foul nappy himself.

No doubt Elizabeth would require another feeding afterwards, which would only reload her digestive tract in preparation for another messy diaper. It was a tedious cycle of feeding and defecating. Sherlock sighed and resigned himself to several months of boredom until Elizabeth was old enough to participate in simple experiments.

But for now, it was diaper change, feeding, diaper change, feeding, diaper change...

"Are you going to finish this or not?" asked the impatient bureaucrat.

'Yes,' answered Sherlock silently, knowing his brother would divine his answer by the tightening of his lips and the nearly imperceptible raising of one eyebrow. 

"Hmmm," hummed the detective, who patted the soiled, squalling infant to comfort her. He tried some Tchaikovsky, which worked well, no surprise there. 

Elizabeth hiccupped as he finger-tapped a version of The 1812 Overture. He correctly theorized that since John enjoyed it, then she would too.

She puckered her little lips, looking just like her father. Even her little forehead crinkled up like John’s. It was precious.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock,” snapped the government official. “Stop mooning over the child and get on with it!”

Understandably annoyed by Mycroft’s voice, Elizabeth began to grizzle again. Sherlock himself was tempted to grizzle at the sound. Instead, he tried to singe his brother with an evil glare but failed to do any real damage, probably because they both wore eye protection.

'This is ridiculous. I am a genius,' thought Sherlock. 'I've studied the videos on the Internet; I've observed John’s nappy-changing technique, no less than seven times, although those diapers were only wet, not soiled. This cannot be that much harder to clean.'

  The lanky brunet took a deep breath, noting that the odor wasn’t so bad, after one got used to it. It was mild in comparison to the smell given off by the rotting liver samples from last week’s experiment. He gripped the baby wipe and carefully swiped at a chubby little leg. 

But instead of helping, the wipe only served to spread the waste around even more.

Sensing his ineptitude and possibly even smelling his fear, Elizabeth increased the frequency and volume of her cries.

Sherlock looked helplessly at her gaping mouth. He shouldn’t have tried to go cold turkey with the dummies. He should have reserved at least one of the infant pacifiers. He could have stored it in the skull with his own emergency pacifiers. 

He tried again with two wipes, and this time succeeded in cleaning one thrashing leg. But more waste seeped out of the diaper. Perhaps he should remove the nappy first?  But would that not unleash a veritable flood of waste?

 He looked back up at his sibling, which was a tactical error.

"Don't look at me, brother mine," said Mycroft, his usually unctuous voice harsh with disapprobation. "You brought this on yourself. You chose this. You got involved."

"You are hateful and useless," hissed the younger man. He dropped the soiled wipes onto the floor.

 To buy time and soothe his frayed nerves, he smoothed his hand down his protective leather apron and readjusted his safety goggles. His lip curled into a sneer as he looked at his sibling, who had been forced to make do with one of Mrs. Hudson's floral-print aprons in order to protect his bespoke grey pinstripe. Mycroft looked ludicrous. It was a comfort to the flustered consulting babysitter.

But it turned out that even Mycroft did not have a heart of stone. It was questionable whether he did have a heart, but if he did, it was not made of stone.

 In any case, Mycroft relented and moved in to assist. The elder Holmes brother stiffened his already stiff upper lip, pinched his aristocratic nose shut with elegant fingers, and approached the table proffering a large handful of the expensive Pampers-Brand, Sensitive-Baby wipes.

 “In battle, it is wise to have superior numbers to overwhelm the enemy,” suggested the secret leader of the Western World. "Perhaps a large number of disposable flannels will be more efficacious?"

With Mycroft’s meager moral support and armed with a generous handful of the superior premium wipes, Sherlock returned to the fray. He wiped her legs and dropped the dirty wipes on the floor, panting slightly with the effort.

So far, Elizabeth Shirley Watson did not appear to appreciate his effort or today's significant upgrade in infant hygiene product, which was a bit disappointing. Indeed, she did not appear to be comforted by the premium wipes, which had been advertised to be soft and gentle to baby’s skin and contained milk essentials for conditioning and comfort. 

It was false advertising, and the company should be sued.

The raised eyebrows on Mycroft's face assured him that officials at Pampers would indeed be paid a visit by Mycroft's private legal team.

Sherlock read not only lips, but also eyebrows.

 Elizabeth interrupted the siblings' silent communion with another piercing scream; Sherlock definitely heard glass shatter in the bedroom.

It was probably a window. He sighed; Mrs. Hudson would take it out of his rent.

Sherlock restrained his very furious goddaughter from squirming off the table with one large hand, keeping in mind both the warnings from the Internet and Elizabeth's nascent attempts to roll over. 

He set his face in a severe frown of concentration and wadded up several additional wipes, which his reluctant, overweight assistant had offered. He dabbed slowly and painstakingly at her legs.

After a few moments, which felt like hours, Sherlock began to see real progress, and he almost smiled. He had cleaned both legs. He was perhaps ready to remove the old dirty nappy.

He re-checked his supplies. He had the clean disposable diaper spread open. Mycroft held another handful of wipes at the ready. It was fortunate that he had ordered an entire case of the high-end baby wipes. 

The consulting genius dropped another handful of disposable wipes onto the floor, knowing that John would happily retrieve them once he recovered from his drug intoxication.

Just then, Elizabeth kicked her chubby legs up and down, in and out, like a miniature ninja, spreading excrement back onto her legs and soiling the clean diaper before it could be used, while she shrieked like a tortured denizen of hell.  

The Holmes brothers shared a look of astonishment at the setback and then grimaced in pain, as her vocal distress tortured their eardrums.

One of the married ones began to pound again. Or the pounding might have been Sherlock's bounding pulse, signaling a dangerous rise in his blood pressure.

 Or...or was that the sound of a soldier marching forward...and stumbling, perhaps due to drug-induced vertigo...and then soldiering on and...

The bedroom door banged open. 

"Thank god!" said the brothers in unison.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the John becomes confused, but manages to change the diaper.  
> Oddly, I managed to include smut in this chapter, which earns it a M or E rating. I'll stick with E to be sure, but welcome your input via the comments section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'd by the gracious and erudite Old Ping Hai, for which I am very grateful.  
> I still have no Brit-picker (Brit-picker is a very odd word, isn't it?)  
> All remaining errors and all Americanisms (another odd word) are my own.

John was not perturbed when Sherlock threw him on top of a table in the morgue at St. Barts. 

Yes, the table was hard and cold, but he was grateful that the table was otherwise unoccupied and thoroughly sanitized. He could easily smell the pine-scented disinfectant that Molly regularly used.

It occurred to John that getting shagged in the morgue might be perceived as a bit not good…but what the hell? Sherlock said dangerous, and here John was—lying naked on the table, with his legs draped over six feet of consulting detective, while said detective smeared faintly glowing goo on John’s private package.

Sherlock had insisted that he had to test the new lubricant, which he had just developed. So now, John was a willing guinea pig, in the name of Science. It was, if one thought about it, a sacrifice for the greater good. It was possible that this discovery could help ensure the well-being of future generations.

Besides, Sherlock’s investigations already felt so damned good.

John bit his lip to keep from whimpering when Sherlock abandoned John’s glowing genitals to test the new lubricant on John’s nipples. Then the brilliant researcher stopped altogether, as he took notes on John’s laptop. 

Sherlock always used John’s laptop. 

John’s laptop would probably glow too now. John sighed and tried to wait patiently for additional experimental protocol.

Looking like a hawk, the scientist gazed down at John with a predatory smirk. John quivered with anticipation, then tried not to groan too loudly when his researcher’s glowing hands returned to his chest. Sherlock rubbed and then pulled at stiff, blue-stained nipples. The doctor couldn’t remember enjoying nipple play like this before. Maybe it was the glowing blue goo. Maybe it was the researcher, who nodded approvingly when John arched his back, wanting more contact, moaning when Sherlock pinched a tense nub almost painfully.

Sherlock stopped again, typing rapidly on John’s computer. John panted, hating his researching because John needed to be touched. Little John needed to be touched.

“Sherrr-lock,” John whined in complaint.

The bastard researcher smirked again, before laying his lube-besmirched hands on John’s chest. He massaged the goo into his skin, slowly, slowly working his way south, to where Little John, glowing bright blue, stood at attention just like a good soldier should.

“Observe, said Sherlock, stopping again to type into the computer. “Your erogenous zones glow more brightly than other areas of your integument. I suspect that this is related to the increased blood flow…”

“Sherlock,” hissed John. “If you don’t stop playing with that damned laptop and start playing with me, I swear I’ll…”

“John, this is not some idle hormonally-driven sexual fantasy, this is for science and as such…”

“Liar!” cried John, his glowing member shaking in outraged sympathy and painful arousal. “This IS a hormonally driven sex fantasy. You’ve wanted to take me on a morgue table for YEARS. And you like dominating me…You standing there, all elegant in your hand-tailored, too-tight suit, looking so superior, and me lying here naked and covered in glowing goo…”

“And you like it, John. You love it!” snapped Sherlock, dipping his hand into a jar of experimental glowing lubricant. 

Before John could think of a retort, the mad genius took John firmly in hand, saying, “Now, compare the feel of my newly invented lubricant to your usual brand of cheap, generic lubricant…”

John lost track of the researcher’s questions; instead he allowed that rich, over-sexed voice to carry him along into this wonderfully naughty sexual fantasy. He fixated on Sherlock’s baritone and the slow, teasing slide of his fingers: up, then down; then up then down; now swirling around Little John’s head.

John felt his own head spin as he began to fall apart under his researcher’s ministrations.

He moaned wantonly as a goo-slicked hand caressed his balls and up his cleft. John helpfully lifted his bum off the cold table to assist in Sherlock’s research.

Suddenly, John felt cold-hot burning in his most private place. He wanted to protest the insistent probing digit but then Sherlock’s mouth distracted him, swallowing his protests and moans.

There was a hint of tea with honey on Sherlock’s breath.

That’s right, John remembered, the experimental lube was flavored-flavored like tea with a spoonful of honey. 

John couldn’t wait to taste more of it. The doctor grappled with Sherlock’s left arm and captured his wrist. John dragged Sherlock’s hand, dripping with blue lubricant, down to his mouth and he began to suckle on Sherlock’s elegant blue fingers. This elicited simultaneous moans from both him and his lover. 

Sherlock rolled the table holding John’s laptop aside and it crashed into the wall. He dove down onto John’s groin, licking up his flesh before taking Little John into his mouth.

The obscene rumble of lust, which escaped from Sherlock, vibrated into John’s flesh, making him even harder than before.

John bucked under the onslaught. He sucked on scrumptious honeyed tea-tasting fingers, while being fingered and fellated under the bright exam lights of the morgue.

John was helpless to resist. As always, the mad researcher deployed his mouth ruthlessly, but instead of sarcasm and cutting remarks, he used his god-of-sex mouth to taste, suck and bite John’s throbbing, aching cock. 

And the lubricated finger, which was knuckle deep in his arse (no, make that two fingers, which were knuckle deep in his arse), felt amazing, brilliant, wonderful. 

This new lubricant was wonderful and amazing. 

Sherlock was wonderful and brilliant.

Everything was wonderful and amazingly brilliant, and John’s loins tightened and burned with arousal.

Those long, lubricated fingers worked deep inside him, discovering his sweet spot with unerring accuracy over and over until John rocked his head back against the unforgiving table, making the room spin again. 

John wanted to tell Sherlock how brilliantly wonderful his newly invented lubricant was. He wanted to ask if Sherlock would be willing to put some of his new and improved experimental lube on his own dick to test how well it stood up when Sherlock was properly rogering his blogger.

But his words all jumbled together, and it was surprisingly difficult to talk while he suckled Sherlock’s lube-coated digits.

It was all amazingly good. 

And John was close, too close to ask for Sherlock’s dick. He couldn’t talk because of the tongue assaulting his cock and the fingers in both his arse and his mouth, and God, dear God…John was sooo close. The pressure in his loins built up, making him burn and tremble… 

Someone screamed; their tortured cries sounding muffled and distant and yet so close and clear...which was admittedly sort of odd.

But supposedly, one could go blind from too much masturbation, so maybe one could go deaf from too much lube enhanced sex in a morgue. That was probably the explanation. John was going to be driven deaf when he orgasmed. Maybe it was a side effect of the lube.

John should have been concerned about going deaf, and he certainly should have been concerned for whoever was doing the screeching, because he was an army doctor, who was trained to help people. But all those fingers working in his orifices distracted him.

Somebody shrieked again, and John worried vaguely that maybe Molly had walked in on them (which would be a bit embarrassing), then he worried a little that maybe Mary had just returned from her mission in Eastern Europe (which might be a wee bit dangerous, if Mary was feeling jealous. (And she’d probably feel jealous if she saw that Sherlock now had three fingers up John’s arse.)

He couldn’t see past Sherlock’s wild mahogany curls as he sucked John into another dimension of lube-induced ecstasy.

But the screaming continued, and really, it was almost enough to put John off. John began to worry that the screaming might be from a crime victim. 

Now, it wasn’t as if John was about to jump off the table and rush to someone’s rescue with no trousers but sporting a raging hard-on, which glowed blue, because that scenario would be awkward and inappropriate and possibly illegal in a public place like a hospital morgue. 

No, the good doctor was concerned because the close but distant cries might distract Sherlock, who had removed his fingers from John’s mouth in order to loosen his hand-tailored trousers.

Yes! Sherlock was pulling out his dick and smearing it with goo, which glowed with blue incandescence as soon as it touched Sherlock’s sex. 

John wanted the screaming to stop. It couldn’t distract Sherlock now, not now when he was about to roger John into another dimension of orgasmic lust. 

And Sherlock was in him, thrusting and ramming hard.

There was no need to wait for John to acclimate to the intrusion, because he was a natural bottom and the blue lube was highly effective.

Sherlock rammed home burying himself in John, with a deep, rumbling groan. John moaned back as he teetered on the edge.

He was close; he was thisssss close… 

Another bloodcurdling scream echoed through the morgue, ruthlessly severing John’s impending climax.

His eyes flew open. 

‘What? Wait, what the hell was that noise? And where am I?’ 

He blinked in confusion. 

‘Where the fuck is Sherlock and his newly discovered lubricant?’ wondered the disoriented doctor.

He clearly wasn’t in the morgue, and Sherlock was nowhere in sight. John wasn’t even naked. He was somewhat scantily dressed in a pair of red pants and a very worn, old, grey tee-shirt, which the doctor didn’t recognize.

He clearly wasn’t in the morgue having sex with Sherlock. Wait, the whole thing must have been…a dream.

John Watson closed his eyes and groaned with the intense dismay of one who had been catastrophically cock-blocked.

His blocked cock ached with frustration. His arse ached with emptiness. 

He tried to remember…he remembered that he had barely slept all week, because he was preparing to leave Mary, who might possibly react with lethal violence. He remembered being so very tired for so very long and thinking that he should confide in his best friend.

Someone screamed again, which brought him back to the present and his aching flesh. He almost thought the scream might have come from his own mouth. He bloody well felt like screaming, because he'd been thissss close.

But no, it wasn’t him screaming. 

Someone else was screaming, well they were just crying really. 

It was Lizzy.

LIZZY! 

Oh God, it was Lizzy! Was she being tortured? She was probably being tortured! Or maybe she had a wet diaper. 

Either way, John had to go to her now.

He rolled out of bed and ran directly into an unexpected wall. 

Fortunately, his lucky red pants had kept his hard-on squashed painfully inside the briefs, so the dazed doctor only smashed his head and shoulder against the unyielding wall, and Little John was undamaged. 

In spite of Little John’s survival, the collision was still a shocking surprise and really painful.

His arms cartwheeled as dazed, in pain and quite unbalanced, he valiantly fought against the inexorable tug of gravity. His hand knocked over a glass of water from atop a strange nightstand, and it shattered against the surprisingly hard wall, littering the floor with dangerous glass shards. 

His ears rang from the collision with the eldritch wall; he danced away from the shards of glass, and backed into the bed. John finally lost his battle against gravity and fell onto the bed. 

Doctor Watson slowly sat back up and rubbed his aching head, meaning the head on top of his neck, because in the confusion, Little John had rapidly lost interest in hanging around.

“I don’t understand,” muttered the doctor, unable to hear himself over the horrible ringing in his ears. He wondered if the wall had concussed him.

“The bloody wall is in the wrong bloody place,” grumbled John. “Why on earth has the bloody, damned wall been moved? Who moved it? And how?” 

“How?”

“How?” he muttered.

The wall remained silent. He glared at the innocent-seeming wall even as it radiated smug malevolence.

'Wait...that's not my wall,' thought John slowly. It was the wrong wall altogether.

“I still don’t understand,” John muttered again, looking around in confusion.

Wait. Not only was this not the morgue. This wasn’t even his bedroom. 

This wasn’t even a room in the horrid little house which he shared with Mary Watson, née Morstan, aka A.G.R.A—that attractive, but dangerous woman, whom he had foolishly married in a pathetic bid to find some shred of happiness in a life without Sherlock.

No. 

No. This wasn’t his bedroom. This was Sherlock’s bedroom, in 221B Baker Street.

He was in Sherlock’s bedroom, because he was going to find more than a shred of happiness with Sherlock very much in his life. 

His life wasn’t pathetic any more, but it was insane. Insanely wonderful, because he had moved back into 221B. And he and Sherlock were lovers. And the sex was bloody, insanely awesome. 

And…yeah.

In spite of John’s deep sleep deprivation, the doctor allowed a rather goofy grin to spread over his face at the thought of their repeated getting-to-know-you-better sex over the last twenty-four hours. 

And not only that, thought John, but Sherlock wanted to be in a relationship. Not only that, but Mary wasn’t going to kill either John or Sherlock; thanks to Mycroft, who had  conveniently arranged an instant annulment for John and Mary’s marriage, sending Mary off to central Europe in an impressive and inexplicable display of deus-ex-mechanical legerdemain.

He scowled a little, and rucking up his forehead, because just thinking that sentence hurt John's head even more. Although he had to admit that his use of rather big words (and even some newly minted words) was rather insanely impressive.

And he grinned again when he recalled that he would be staying at 221B for a Very Long Time since he and Sherlock were now…something. Partners? Flatmates with benefits? Boyfriends? John preferred the term boyfriend; it was old-fashioned and sort of comforting. No doubt the term was too trite for the World’s Only Consulting Detective, but John really wanted to be Sherlock’s boyfriend.

And thinking about the insane but brilliant detective made John smile insanely, in spite of his sore head, sore shoulder and overall confusion. He would have been insanely happy if it weren’t for his post-collision dizziness and the ringing in his ears.

‘Or...or...is that ringing?’ he wondered.

‘No it’s not tinnitus,’ he realized. ‘It’s wailing; someone is wailing like a banshee. It’s Lizzy!Lizzy’s crying; she’s screaming!’

Now he remembered, Lizzy was crying possibly due to a wet diaper or possibly because she was being tortured, and John had been stupidly delayed when that diabolical wall almost knocked him out cold.

Well, enough was enough.

John jumped up, narrowly sidestepping the broken glass and avoiding the deviously dangerous wall, which seemed to lean forward in an effort to make him crash again.

But that was unimportant.

Lizzy was important.

He shuffled around the bed, ignoring his mild vertigo and state of partial undress. He shook his malaise off, like a dog shedding water, and marched forward, determined to rescue Lizzy from…from...from whoever was torturing her. 

He needed a weapon, obviously, and snatched up Sherlock’s riding crop, which had resided on Sherlock’s dresser for years. 

He knew it was Sherlock's riding crop, because John had binned The Woman’s riding crop years ago, in a fit of almost-jealousy, even though John was still officially not-gay at the time.

Then the former soldier stopped so that he wouldn’t fall down. While he waited for the room to stop spinning, he also realized that a riding crop would be an inadequate weapon if he was forced to subdue someone more threatening than a wicked, man-stealing dominatrix. 

After all, Moriarty could have returned from the dead to come and threaten John’s family. The return of Moriarty wouldn’t surprise John one bit. 

All the best geniuses faked their own deaths. Moriarty had done it once already as had Sherlock. Even A.G.R.A. had ‘died’, leaving Mary in her place.

And that trollop, that Woman, that Irene Adler…why, she had been dead and then resurrected too many times to keep track of. 

Maybe the Woman was out there right now, scaring Lizzy with her stupid battledress and trying to seduce Sherlock.

If that Woman was out there, John would probably use the crop on her.

As soon as the room slowed its nauseating dance, he resumed his slightly unsteady march toward the door.

Passing Sherlock’s nightstand, his eyes locked on the table lamp. The lamp looked like an effective bludgeon to use against any thugs who might have accompanied Moriarty or even Magnusson from the realms of the un-dead.

John slid Sherlock's riding crop under the waistband of his red pants. Without slowing down, he grabbed the table lamp, noting the sparks, which flew out of the socket when the cord was ripped out from the wall. The sparks reminded him of glowing blue goo, which reminded him that he had been thissss close, before being interrupted from his hormonally-driven sleeping sexual fantasy. 

He ripped open the door with more force than was necessary. The former army captain raised his dangerous table lamp and marched straight into the kitchen, which was apparently an alternate universe.

John blinked at the unexpected sight.

To begin with, the kitchen was moving in a most unsettling manner, and it possessed several uncannily hazardous walls, one of which collided painfully with his shoulder. 

More upsetting was the vision of two posh Holmes brothers changing a poopy nappy. Or to be precise, they were attempting to change a poopy nappy, and making a bad job of it. 

The thing was; the Holmes brothers shouldn’t have been trying to change a nappy in the first place. It was unnatural. The real Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes would never deign to change a nappy, poopy or otherwise.

No, this was a strange new world, in which Sherlock dressed like Doctor Frankenstein and Mycroft revealed hitherto unsuspected cross-dressing tendencies as he stood proudly in his floral apron and pink goggles. 

John squinted at Mycroft’s overly bright, ruffled, red and orange apron, which was not only effeminate but which also clashed horribly with his blue, fitted suit with its tasteful periwinkle pinstripes. In comparison to the apron, the girlish, pink ski goggles were hardly worth commenting on. 

This had to be a case of unexpected trans-dimensional crossover. There was no other suitable explanation.The real Mycroft would never wear colors that opposed each other so hideously. The real Holmes brothers would never change any nappy, most particularly a nasty little number like the one poor Lizzy was obviously still wearing.

Lizzy had stopped whinging, but even she looked a bit AU, as she wrinkled her brow in a tiny Watsonian scowl of daughterly disapproval at her disoriented progenitor.

John blinked, confused by the unusually complicated vocabulary appearing in his head and disoriented by his vertigo and the appearance of Sherlock and Lizzy clones (he found he could accept a Mycroft clone with equanimity).

This left John feeling a bit uncertain as to how to proceed, because he had never awoken from a really hot dream into an alternate reality before.

Sherlock blinked at him from behind his safety goggles. John found Sherlock's mad scientist look kind of sexy in a strange, slightly disturbing way; he almost smiled at the devilishly handsome detective.

The good news was that there were no thugs or criminal masterminds or even a dominatrix. AU Sherlock, and AU Mycroft were alone, and even if they were alien (in an AU sort of way), of course they would never threaten John or his AU daughter. 

Clearly, his ceramic bludgeon wasn't needed, and

John lowered his battle-lamp. 

Mycroft smirked behind his pink ski goggles; it almost looked as if he were trying to seduce John. 

John had been mistaken. Mycroft was indeed a threat. Of course he was. Mycroft was the most dangerous man that John would ever meet…in any universe. 

John grinned dangerously and raised his lamp up over his head. He advanced one step forward, before he saw AU Sherlock subtly shaking his head 'no'. 

John hesitated a moment, but as much as he distrusted Mycroft, John trusted Sherlock... in every possible universe.

John loosened his fingers, and his weapon dropped to the floor, forgotten even as it shattered.

John ignored the broken lamp, because there was a more important problem at hand. 

And the important problem was not his apparent cross-dimensional travel; no, the universe-shifting thingy was a minor problem in comparison to the main issue. 

The REAL problem was that the AU geniuses had been making a hash out of a simple diaper change. The poor baby still stank to high heaven, baby wipes littered the floor in an unsanitary and profligate waste of cleaning supplies, and AU Lizzy was also late in receiving her mid-morning bottle-assuming that AU Lizzy normally received a mid-morning bottle in this odd parallel reality.

Well, AU Lizzy looked hungry, eyeing him with disapproval and smacking her lips. Yes, she was definitely waiting for her bottle.

But first, the nappy would have to be changed.

Captain Daddy squared his shoulders, wincing at the ache in his left shoulder. He shook his head, which was not a good idea after traveling to an alternate universe and bumping his head on a hard alien wall. He ignored the admittedly mild vertigo and grabbed a prepared bottle from the fridge, popping it into the bottle warmer.

Apparently, the important things hadn’t been altered in this alternate world.

He pivoted with military precision, another unwise maneuver considering his disequilibrium. His eyes scoured the room looking for possible threats and rifts in the fabric of space. There were neither.

On the other hand, he noticed AU Mycroft’s shifty-eyed counter-assessment and AU Sherlock's wide-eyed, hopeful expression, which meant that AU Mycroft already knew that John was probably a visitor from a parallel universe and that AU Sherlock expected John to not only take over the nappy change, but he also expected John to clean up the mess in the kitchen.

Captain Watson sighed. Apparently almost nothing was different in this universe.

It seemed as though Sherlock (or AU Sherlock) thought that John actually enjoyed cleaning up unspeakable messes.

But that was just ridiculous. How could anyone think that John enjoyed cleaning up messes?

But in the end, John knew that he’d always clean up after the consulting detective because John could refuse Sherlock nothing, regardless of which reality they were in. Even though he knew that Sherlock was manipulating him, John was a sucker for Sherlock’s faux-helpless, puppy-dog-eyed look. 

A martyred smile formed on the doctor’s face as he prepared to clean up yet another mess.

First of all, he opened the tin marked Healthy Snacks and took out a new plastic dummy. As a parent, he understood the necessity of keeping spare dummies at hand. As a longtime friend of Sherlock, he knew that the genius would conscientiously avoid healthy snacks. John unwrapped the infant pacifier and popped it into Lizzy’s mouth. 

Lizzy calmed almost instantly, working the dummy with an Sherlockian intensity.

The room reverberated with the sudden, shocking silence.

Mycroft watched appraisingly as his brother’s jaw dropped. 

Then John, trying unsuccessfully not to look smug, accepted the ridiculously large handful of wipes from his AU detective. 

At once, John’s sensitive surgeon’s hands sensed something different. He stared hard at the baby wipes, which were thicker than his usual brand of wipes. 

He sniffed; they were unscented. 

He slowly rubbed the pre-moistened baby wipe between his fingers. He frowned; he could tell that these wipes contained soothing (and no doubt pricey emollients). In fact they probably even contained milk essentials—not that John had any idea why someone would add milk essentials to a baby wipe. As far as the practical doctor was concerned, the milk essentials were just more additives that added price to an item for no good reason.

John huffed, because these were not his preferred brand of disposable baby wipes. Clearly these were expensive, top-of-the-line disposable baby wipes.

John pressed his chapped lips together in growing dismay at the sight of all the expensive wipes which had been carelessly dropped to the floor.

Sherlock had wasted several days’ worth of expensive premium wipes, which probably cost twice as much as the more practical store brand.

It was a ridiculous extravagance and it confirmed that this was not John’s reality, because the real John (meaning himself) would never pay extra for name brand with or without added milk essentials. 

It seemed that in this universe, AU John had been a profligate spender. John could feel the first stirrings of unease, because living in this alternate reality might prove to be more difficult than he had anticipated.What if he was now expectedto spend his every penny buying expensive premium wipes? What was next, expensive designer nappies? John was not a wealthy man. Working as a GP didn't pay all that well. Dear God, what if John had to give up drinking tea, in order to purchase overly expensive, name-brand baby supplies?

Before the panic attack took hold, John sucked a deep, cleansing breath in through his nose. Although his therapist had prescribed deep breathing for stress, given the current malodorous diaper situation, it had been an unwise move, and his nose wriggled in dismay.

However, there was a plus side to the odiferous assault; the pungent aroma acted like smelling salts, shocking the doctor back to his senses. 

The good doctor loosened the tapes holding the soiled nappy shut, and as he worked, he reassured himself with good-old common sense.

Really, the situation might not be as dire as he first thought. Even if he was forced to remain in this extravagant alternate reality, he could still insist on buying practical, economical baby care products. If necessary, he could always work a few extra hours each week. Surely he would be able to afford tea even in this bizarre, crazy, spendthrift universe.

Using a single wipe from the wasteful wad of over-priced towelettes, John set to work cleaning his AU daughter, whom he privately vowed to love just as much as Lizzy Prime, assuming he was stranded in ‘Spendthrift World’ as he dubbed this universe. 

His forehead wrinkled prodigiously as he tried to adjust to life in a new parallel reality. His nose wrinkled at the smell. 

He gently cleaned the baby’s plump little legs, and the very normality of this routine, coupled with the all-too-familiar, pungent odor, cleared his mind and forced him to reconsider his belief that that an accidental transport through a rift in space and time was the only reasonable explanation for the bizarre circumstances in which he found himself.

Perhaps there was a more simple reason to explain why Sherlock was wearing his 'I'm running an experiment and it might be explosively dangerous' garb while changing Lizzy's nappy, not to mention finding Mycroft assisting the procedure while wearing pseudo-attractive, pseudo-drag.

John’s hand froze just after he tossed a balled-up wipe into the bin from several feet away.

'Good God! No! I did not call Mycroft pseudo-attractive!'  thought John, as a panic attack reared its ugly head once again. 'Oh God, no. No. I didn’t mean it like that! He's not attractive. No, he's not attractive at all—with or without a stupid apron. I must have gone insane from all the insanity going on here, and I'll need to return to counseling now. I hope it's only temporary insanity...Perhaps it’s temporary insanity due to exposure to some experimental hallucinogen.'

‘Yes! Yes! ’ he thought, ‘A drug would explain this bizarre-seeming situation and my one-time-only, very minimal pseudo-attraction to Mycroft, which is gone now anyway. Yes, I've probably been drugged again. After all, people drug me all the time.Moriarty, Magnusson, and Mary drugged me, sometimes more than once. Why...why...even Sherlock tried drugging me at Baskerville.'

While he dithered and recovered from his almost-panic attack, Lizzy glared up at him with preternatural perspicacity. She probably wondered why her father hadn’t finished cleaning her bottom and proceeded to the feeding portion of the cycle, although she may have also sensed his fear and confusion.

John bit his lip worriedly, because if a two month-old infant could sense and understand his mental perturbation while silently berating him for dithering, it meant that she was even smarter than Sherlock, which in turn argued in favor of his 'accidental transit though a inter-dimensional warp theory', as did the fact that John was casually using words like berate, perturbation and perspicacity, which were part of a supercilious lexicon that John did not normally utilize. 

‘It’s possible,’ thought John, ‘that I am now taking on the attributes of AU John, who is apparently brighter than me; even if he is a bit of spend thrift. Oh! What if in this universe I’m the genius and Sherlock is the one with a funny little mind.’

Sherlock looked at him with disdain.

‘Or not,’ concluded John sadly to himself. “Even in this universe, Sherlock is the mind reading genius and I’m the one with a funny little mind.”

Which perhaps was an argument in favor of the drug-exposure hypothesis. 

The good doctor’s concentration creases deepened as he considered another possibility. ‘What if the mystery drugs have induced hallucinations and increased my verbal intelligence quotient at the same time? Sort of a cross-over between the movies Go Ask Alice and Flowers for Algernon.’

Or...or …or maybe it was more likely that John had simply developed a frontal lobe glioma, which led to hallucinations and his new propensity to use multisyllabic words for no discernible reason?

‘Never mind all that,’ thought John, finally resorting to a rare third wipe while gently gripping Lizzy’s ankles to keep her still. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this later…Oh, bottom. And here I am cleaning Lizzy’s dirty bottom.’

In spite of his dire straits, John giggled over the terrible pun.

The Holmes brothers stared at him as if he were the one behaving oddly. Well, from their perspective and from their reality, perhaps John was acting a bit off.

John sighed; no doubt they had already deduced that John was either drugged, dying of brain cancer, or an AU John from another dimension.They probably knew which scenario had occurred. After all, they were intellectually gifted polymaths, who could explain everything to John if they really wanted to. 

Unfortunately, it was very unlikely that they would explain anything to him, preferring to loom over him superciliously while he did all of the dirty work.

'Dirty work...and I’m cleaning the dirty nappy…'  thought John, with yet another little snigger.

The Holmes brothers now wore matching faces of confusion; perhaps even these two geniuses were a bit perturbed by the possibility of John traveling to an alternate universe with or without a brain tumor? Perhaps they expected him to become upset? Perhaps he should reassure them?

“Never mind my hypothetical cross-dimensional transit,” said John, still using large, unwieldy words like a professional linguist. He decided to confront the polymaths before they tried to obfuscate the matter like they usually did. 

Maybe he could surprise them into explaining something? It was worth a try…  
"Right. So what's going on here?" demanded the former army doctor, speaking briskly so as not to reveal his mental perturbation.

It would never do to let his guard down in front of Mycroft in any reality. Mycroft would surely find a way to use it against him.

He had hoped to surprise a response out of them, but they remained enigmatically silent and annoyingly tall. He shook his head at the exasperating siblings, and then expertly dispatched the now bundled poopy-nappy into the bin from several feet away.

He smirked proudly when the toxic bundle landed in the bin. It was comforting to know that his rugby arm hadn’t been affected by war injuries or his intermittent vertigo brought on by drugs or tumors…or shifts in some inter-dimensional interface.

"Well,” ex-army captain spoke into the silence. “I’m waiting for an explanation.” He looked up expectantly.

The two men in strange fancy dress looked at one another sheepishly. 

Now, a sheepish look was a very rare expression to find on either Holmes. Finding this expression on both brothers simultaneously was one for the record books. Sadly, John had no camera in hand to record the event.

"Sherlock,” said the doctor, who was finishing off the cleaning. “Please keep your hand on Lizzy so that she doesn't wiggle off the table. I cannot tell you how many children I’ve treated for falls from tables when they were left unattended by grown-ups, who should have known better," instructed Doctor Watson. "Nurse...” he said to Mycroft. “Um, sorry, I mean…erhm, Mycroft, hand me another wipe. Just one wipe, not half a dozen. Money doesn't grow on trees, nor do Gucci designer wipes."

"Spoken like a true Scotsman," muttered Sherlock, finally breaking his self-imposed silence with a sideways glance his thrifty, blond partner. 

Not pleased to be insulted by a possible AU clone of Sherlock Holmes or worse yet, a sarcastic hallucination which might have been induced by drugs or a tumor, John retaliated with a dark, potentially blinding Watson glare.

Luckily for the consulting detective, he was still wearing his safety goggles, which protected his eyes from otherwise certain injury.

Meanwhile, John applied diaper cream, which was yet another premium brand-name product, much to John’s disgust. He released Lizzy’s ankles and delivered a raspberry to her tummy, much to Mycroft’s disgust. 

Luckily, the doctor did not notice Mycroft’s moue of distaste or Sherlock’s angry glare of resentment at his sibling. Oblivious to the silent exchange of death glares, John gently pushed the dummy back into Lizzy’s mouth before she could restart her ear-piercing protests.

As soon as he was done tickling his little girl, he scooped her up, cradling her in one arm. He was not very surprised to see Sherlock making faces at Mycroft who, to no one’s surprise, sneered in retaliation. He had missed the death-glares entirely, yet somehow sensed their lingering aftereffects, which made him a little nervous.

“What in God’s name are you two on about now? And don’t you think it’s time to tell me what’s really going on here?” asked the former army captain, lifting his chin to gain the illusion of height. 

Feeling vulnerable turned him a bit over-aggressive, because he was the only one without protective goggles in case there was an exchange of death-glares.

John reassured himself with the thought, ‘At least I still have Sherlock’s riding crop to use for self-defense.’ He patted his weapon with his free hand.

“John, what are you doing with The Woman’s riding crop?” asked Sherlock sharply.

The doctor gasped and whipped the crop out from underneath his waistband as if it were a burning brand.

“I thought this was your riding crop!” hissed John.

He dropped the wretched Woman-contaminated crop on top the now broken table lamp and wiped his hands with several overpriced Gucci baby wipes.

“No, I haven’t seen my riding crop for years,” said Sherlock, wearing a puzzled frown. “But what on earth were you planning on doing with a riding crop at all?"

John paused. Should he explain that the crop was initially intended to be a weapon to defend himself and his family from reincarnated master criminals or a certain dominatrix? Should he confess that he had accidentally on purpose binned Sherlock's riding crop thinking it was the Woman’s, and then have to re-open all the issues surrounding The Woman? And was now a good time to bring up the question of whether John was a visitor from a parallel universe? Or should he even bother to ask who might have drugged him this time?

He shook his head and avoided all those questions by ignoring Sherlock and chanting a nursery rhyme about hot cross buns. Of course he knew that Sherlock despised nursery rhymes, but he also knew that something like nursery rhymes were used in nearly every human society to teach babies language. 

Sherlock Holmes was not the only person who could research childcare on the Internet. 

Anyway, Lizzy liked nursery rhymes.

So, while he dressed Lizzy in the camouflage onesie, which was John’s favorite, he continued chanting. Only now he was reciting the one about the cat and the fiddle.

“Yes, Doctor, do tell us all about the riding crop,” teased the smarmy bureaucrat, who smirked at the discarded, soon-to-be burnt riding crop.

The doctor blushed fiercely at the smarmy git’s implications. John decided to artfully change the subject and try to trick answers out of the British government by using the direct approach.

“Tell me the truth, Mycroft,” demanded the doctor, “Have you deployed a TARDIS-like device in my flat?”

Mycroft was at a loss, but Sherlock recognized the term immediately, thanks to many nights watching the telly with his best friend.

“I knew it,” said Sherlock darkly. “John’s been drugged.”

“I knew it! I knew I was drugged!” echoed John, breathlessly clutching his daughter to protect her from mysterious attackers. He instantly received scornful looks from both brothers. “Well, I admit that the drug theory was only my second hypothesis…right behind the alternate universe hypothesis. But still, I did think of it. So, who did it? Why did they do it? Oh God! Is it safe to give Lizzy her formula?”

He eyed the now-warmed bottle suspiciously, while he cuddled little Lizzy even closer, sheltering her from the unknown drug fiends. 

Lizzie had been temporarily soothed by her clean, dry bottom and by her dummy. Now she wrinkled her brow in a nascent Watson attack-glare, to which her father, being a Watson, was immune. 

“I bet it was Mary,” continued John. "She has darts which can be loaded with everything from Fentanyl to curare."

“No, not Mary. She's in Budapest,” said the brothers in eerie unison, like alien automatons. 

Perhaps it was much too soon to shelve the AU hypothesis, thought John, eyeing the brothers cautiously, because maybe this was John's universe after all, and they were the ones who had invaded for inexplicable and, in AU Mycroft's case, possibly nefarious reasons. 

Sherlock, if he was an invading version of himself, would have invaded for simple curiosity’s sake and he’d never hurt John in any case.

And if Sherlock (AU or not) thought that John had been drugged, then of course he was right. He was always right, and John still suspected that Mary was the prime suspect. 

John puckered his lips then said, “You know, it could still be Mary. She could have dosed me with a slow-acting poison, or one that required a catalyst for activation, or she could have employed a second assassin to deliver the dose. Assassins probably have clubs like the Diogenes, but only for assassins. They could call the club The Jackal, or The Et Tu Brute, or…”

“He babbles like a common goldfish, yet amongst the dross there are nuggets of gold,” said Mycroft cryptically.

The doctor couldn’t tell if he’d just been insulted or complimented; he suspected the former.

“I am intrigued by the concept of a poison that would require activation,” murmured Sherlock.

“Well, do you think Lizzy is safe?” asked John, waving the bottle around, much to the hungry infant’s dismay.

“Of course, Elizabeth is safe,” said Sherlock. “Do give her the bottle of formula before it cools off. I suspect that the catalyst is tea. Everyone knows that you drink tea compulsively, and it would be the obvious choice for a catalyst.”

John finally held the bottle to Lizzy’s lips and she began to feed eagerly. 

“And I don’t drink tea compulsively,” said John, who felt as thirsty as his daughter. He very much wanted a cuppa right now but refused to mention it, because he did not wish to be accused of drinking tea compulsively.

“I suppose that we should have your doctor’s blood tested,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock nodded absently as he took John’s pulse.

“You can discuss this with me. I’m right here. In the room,” said John. "And maybe I don't want to have my blood tested."

“Your wishes are irrelevant. You are under the effect of drugs and thus are non compos mentis,” said Mycroft, with an insincere toothy grin.

“I am too compos mentis,” growled John softly, "I'm as compos as you are. I'm not the one wearing a floral apron that clashes with my clothes."

Mycroft produced another moue of distaste.

“Technically, you may not be competent, John. You are displaying paranoid ideation,” said Sherlock, siding with his brother and further raising John's suspicions that the drugs theory was a red herring to mask the fact that Sherlock was really from a parallel reality. “Consider, John, you think that your ex-wife may have administered a delayed action medication to you...”

“Wait, I thought that you thought that my suggestion was a good hypothesis!” said John, settling his daughter more comfortably in his arms.

“Not bad for an amateur,” said Sherlock. “But if you're wrong, then you are delusional. And if you are correct, then you are under the influence of some mysterious medication. In either case, you are mentally compromised. Try not to get upset, it may interact adversely with the drug or drugs in your system. Plus, you might disturb Elizabeth. In fact, I think you probably should give her to me to hold in case the drug or drugs cause your sudden collapse. Have you been feeling anything unusual and do you know who the prime minister is?”

John’s concern furrows deepened into concern chasms, because he had been suffering from vertigo, which was now abating, but still…And why would a reasonable hypothesis like being secretly drugged make him seem delusional? It wasn’t fair.

“You aren’t being fair, Sherlock,” said John. ”Why is it that when you suggest that I was drugged by a slow-acting poison, it makes sense, but when I say it, I’m either a conspiracy theorist or drugged out of my skull?”

“Because life isn’t fair, John,” said the Holmes automatons speaking once again in unison. Sherlock tried to reach for his peacefully feeding and now clean Goddaughter. 

John pulled Lizzy out of Sherlock’s reach and put on his mulish face. He scanned the room for another likely weapon to replace the abandoned riding crop.

“You deliberately broke a lamp after threatening my brother with it and then you brought out the Woman’s riding crop in a show of aggression. Currently you are beset with paranoid ideation…”

“It’s not paranoid if the threat is real,” said John, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“My PA will bring the necessary phlebotomy equipment,” said Mycroft, who had been texting on his phone. “That means she'll be bringing needles and tubes to draw a blood sample,” Mycroft added superciliously, as if John were a dummy.

“I bloody well know the definition of phlebotomy. I am a doctor, remember?”

“Mmm,” hummed Mycroft.

“Your supercilious airs perturb me,” said John, as superciliously as possible, given that the Holmes brothers loomed over him like a pair of frighteningly intelligent ostriches from some distant parallel reality.

But his demonstration of perspicacity worked liked a charm. Mycroft frowned and retreated, while Sherlock grinned proudly, which pleased John and put paid to the alien automaton hypothesis…for now. 

John smiled at his handsome lover (AU or otherwise).

“What’s the matter, Mycroft? Didn’t you realize how perspicacious I can be?” asked John cheekily.

“Hmm, I begin to see his finer points, Sherlock,” said Mycroft with an ingratiating smile.

“I don’t want you to see John’s finer points,” said Sherlock, who lifted up his goggles, resting them on top of his wild curls, adding to his mad-scientist appearance and allowing him to glare more effectively at his sibling. “It’s bad enough that you’ve been ogling John while he struts about half-naked. I begin to suspect that his aberrant behavior is due to drugs which you yourself administered in an effort to seduce him."

Sherlock pointed a long finger at his startled brother.

John made an undignified sound, which was squeaker than John would have liked.

Except that John really didn’t care how he sounded, because the de facto leader of the free world had once again caught John in a state of undress. Even worse, the said world leader was possibly trying to seduce John with mind-altering drugs and strangely attractive aprons.

This was all too much for John Watson, not to mention that he felt the return of his disequilibrium and should probably relinquish his daughter to safer hands almost immediately.

The good doctor decided that discretion was the better part of valor and chose to make tactical retreat. He quickly deposited Lizzy into Sherlock’s arms and withdrew into the bedroom, determined to hide away for the rest of his miserable life in this alternate reality, or until Mycroft left with a vow never to return to 221B.

The doctor threw himself down on the bed, vainly hoping to be struck by indoor lightning or else be transported into a new alternate universe, preferably one in which John had not been ogled by an AU Mycroft Holmes, who wore frilly aprons.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this story. I would love to read your comments :D  
> This was neither Beta'd or Brit-picked. Please let me know if you find any errors :D


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